


Shrike

by BossGoose, Charmkeeper



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: 5+1 Things, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Promnis - Freeform, Sad, Time Travel, World of Ruin, established promnis, fast and loose with time traveling mechanics, implied fix it, no seriously there will be a lot of sad, time traveling doggo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 07:53:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26848468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BossGoose/pseuds/BossGoose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charmkeeper/pseuds/Charmkeeper
Summary: Five times Ignis traveled to see Prompto and the one time they traveled together.
Relationships: Prompto Argentum/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	Shrike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy and please mind the tags. <3
> 
> BossGoose will be writing chapters 1-5, and Charmkeeper will be writing chapter 6.

The rain pattered on the roof tiles above them, steady and consistent in a world that had been thrown into destruction. It had been raining since he’d woken. It seemed like it was raining all the time now. Since the covenant, perhaps, though he couldn’t know for sure. Not without asking. And he wasn’t much up for conversation these days.

Things had been . . . well. It seemed a drastic understatement to use words like difficult or uncomfortable to describe the atmosphere since the covenant had been evoked. Altissa was in shambles. The oracle was dead. And the King had only recently woken to find a world grimmer than his heart could rightly take.

And Ignis himself, rather than weather it to support his old friend as was expected to him, had been so bold as to suggest they give up. What else could he do, in the wake of a messenger’s vision, images bringing form to the prophesied death of one he held so dear. He couldn't accept it. He wouldn’t. And yet. The king would not turn back.

_"A king pushes onward always, accepting the consequences and never looking back.”_

How he’d grown to resent those words. And now he had to stand back and watch his liege, his oldest, dearest friend, walk that path willingly. Determined to see it through to the end.

Well. Not watch, persay, any longer. That, too, was taken from him. He’d given it willingly. Would do so again, if given the opportunity. And yet. And yet.

He’d never felt so helpless in all his life. So sixdamn useless. How was he to serve, if he could scarcely even feed himself. Could hardly cross the room without stumbling or banging into something. How could he expect to be worth anything, if he couldn’t perform the most basic function without aid?

For the moment, at least, he’d been left alone to stew. A small blessing, not to have to endure the pity his condition provoked, for a time. To not constantly flinch at every touch he could no longer see coming. They were only trying to help, of course, but the next time someone grabbed at him when he so much as wanted to get a drink of water or to use the facilities . . .

He felt like he was going to _scream._

The rain pattered on, relentless and uncaring, much like the Hydrean herself. The sheets were abrasive against his skin, and his clothes were abrasive and everything was abrasive with his nerves stretched raw and his flesh still healing. And gods, how it _itched_. He was five seconds from clawing his own skin off every time the drugs wore off, and the longer it went on, the longer he had to try between each dose.

It was for the best, really. He would have to do without sooner rather than later. But that didn’t stop it from being so bloody aggravating.

Though the aggravation was, for the moment, beginning to recede. He had taken his last dose fairly recently, and after yet another argument with one of his oldest friends, had been left in peace while he waited for it to take effect.

Well, mostly in peace. Not entirely, he supposed, given the weight on the bed, and the wet nose that pressed against his side. He pat at the space beside him until he found the creature’s head, felt sleek fur beneath bare hands. The dog gave a huff, leaning into the touch. Umbra, he supposed. More than supposed, really. After all. He had seen Pryna die.

“Looking for Noct, are you?” Even as he gave word to the question, he knew it was untrue. If Umbra had been looking for the prince, then he would be with the prince. He hadn’t the faintest idea why the messenger was with him rather than Noctis.

Noctis, who would die to fulfill the prophecy. Noct, who refused to turn back. Who had been more than distressed when Ignis had suggested it. He should be proud that the prince . . . the king . . . was moving forward. And yet. And yet.

Everything felt hopeless instead. And he was worse than useless. A burden. A broken, ruined thing.

Slowly, the stroked the dog’s head. In a way, perhaps they shared a fellow feeling. An echoed grief. His fingers curled around one velveteen ear, and the celestial messenger turned his head to give his hand a single, wet lick.

And then something pulled deep within him, a jerking sensation deep in the pit of his stomach, and suddenly, everything changed.

Everything was so _loud._

He’d found the sound of the rain on the rooftop at the Leville distracting, but now the rain was all around him. The ground was wet and cold against his bare feet, and he could only presume he had some meager shelter to thank for the fact he wasn’t immediately soaked to the bone. Tentatively, he reached out. Where had Umbra taken him? And left him, evidently. The celestial canine appeared to have abandoned him here.

He jammed his fingers against a hard surface, flinched back into the cold and the wet and his left side was almost immediately soaked through. He stepped back forward hastily, knocked his shin against something else, and then just did his best to stand still in place and regain his balance. Waited for his breathing to even out. Shivered and listened to the rain fall around him, relentless and isolating.

He tried to be still. Calm. But all he could hear was the rain coming down around him. Hammering above him. He didn’t now where he was or why. He didn’t –

He startled badly at the feel of something touching his bare arm, softly grasping at his chilled flesh. The hand – a child – immediately retreated at his alarmed cry, apologizing profusely. Hand pressed to his chest, Ignis struggled to calm himself.

“It’s quite alright,” he managed finally, hearing the strain in his own voice. It really wasn’t. But that wasn’t the boy's fault. He just. Needed a minute, at least.

“Mister!” The voice was urgent but uncertain, voice raised to be heard over the weather. “Do you need help?”

He supposed it wasn’t much of a question. How he must have looked. Barefoot. Clumsily dressed, and in pajamas no less. Bandaged and half-soaked. He’d have thought it kind of the boy to have allowed him his dignity with the question if he thought he had any left.

Did he need help? Certainly. But what would help even entail? He didn’t know where he was or why Umbra had brought him here. But it must have been for something? What choice did he have but to rely on whatever – or whomever – he happened across?

“Where am I?” he asked, bending his elbow to provide a handle when a small hand tentatively made contact once more.

“The corner of fifth and main.” Well, that didn’t help at all, but he was quite certain a more general question was going to cause . . . problems. “Hold this.” A handle was pressed into his free hand, then positioned before the boy hesitantly stepped forward. And then they stepped out into the rain and – ah, yes, it must have been an umbrella, though even with the partial shielding, they’d both be thoroughly wet before too long.

“There’s a police station in a few blocks,” he boy explained, his voice hesitant even as his steps were sure. “They can call someone for you.”

Oh lovely. The police. Hopefully Umbra was planning on coming back. He couldn’t imagine what he was going to do otherwise. Or rather. He _could_ imagine, and it was nothing good.

Their progress was slow and mostly silent, at least in the sense that the boy only spoke up again to help him navigate or to offer a few words of encouragement. There was nothing actually silent about fumbling through a downpour with only an umbrella for shelter and the kindness of a stranger to rely on. The cold seemed to go on and on, punctuated by that sweet voice, the rain all around him, and his frequent stumbles. 

And then they came to a pause, the door ahead of them scraping open even as the boy leaned forward. Ignis flinched when a larger hand came to rest on his shoulder as they stepped inside, missing the beginning of the boy’s exchange with the newcomer beneath the skin crawling new sensation. And then a hand patted his arm, and a voice pitched far too loudly addressed him directly.

“Sir? Can you tell me your name?”

“Ignis,” he managed, alarmed by how strained his own voice sounded. Where was his composure? Had he really lost it so quickly? All his training out the window, just like that? And it didn’t even _occur_ to him to lie. Gods. At least it had only been his frist name.

There was a brief pause, then the voice returned. “Okay, Ignis.” The hand at his shoulder nudged him forward, and rather than release his grip on his arm, the boy was pulled along with him. “Why don’t you come over here and sit down?”

Too overwhelmed by the touch and the sheer _noise_ , he offered no resistance to the direction, sinking into a plastic seat with sudden exhaustion. Why was he here? He wanted to go home. He wanted the relative quiet of the Leville, with only the rain overhead and his well-meaning friends, insufferable as their smothering had become. Everything here was so . . . _loud_. Leaning forward, he cupped his hands over his ears and just . . . tried to just breathe. To find some semblance of calm despite the circumstances.

When he lifted his hands, it was a little better. The entirely ordinary noises of a busy police station – the clacking of keyboards, people moving throughout the building and the continuous murmur of voices – were still. A bit too much for his overstimulated senses. But he felt, at least, he was no longer one more touch from clawing his own face off.

The boy had finally pulled his hand away from him, and if he hadn’t heard him talking to the police officer nearby, he’d have had no way of knowing if he was still there at all. It took him a minute to follow the line of conversation, but it seemed the officer was trying to convince the boy to agree to a ride home, only succeeding when she insisted he at least give her the number to call his parents. His reaction was immediately suspect, but the woman settled for his agreement for a ride regardless. Likely determining a welfare check was in order, once they’d gotten him there. Or at least Ignis hoped as much. It had been kind of him to help a stranger in distress. If life were fair, the boy would have someone looking out for him as well.

The boy settled on the plastic seat next to Ignis, the cushion squeaking beneath him as he fidgeted a few moments before stilling. Ignis merely shivered in place as the policewoman assured him she’d be right back with a blanket, then sat silently for another moment or two before he thought to speak up. He turned his head toward the boy, doing his best to look – as much as he looked these days, anyway – in his direction.

“Thank you. . . ?” His name. He hadn't asked the boy’s name, though the boy had at least learned his when the policewoman had asked for it.

A moment of . . . hesitation? Then. “. . . Prompto.”

Ignis sucked in a sharp breath. Prompto wasn’t a particularly common name. Was is possible . . ? Perhaps the question wasn’t merely _where_ Umbra had taken him, but also _when_. He’d known, academically, such a thing was possible. There had been much theorizing about the abilities of the gods’ messengers over the centuries, and he’d seen the evidence for himself many times that the canine was capable of traveling long distances quickly. Why should time be any different? What was the span of a mortal’s life to a god?

“Prompto,” he repeated softly. Fondly. How could he not warm, just at the realization? Was this what Umbra had wanted to show him? Was there something here he needed to understand? “Thank you,” he added again. “You are . . . so good.” Gods, he was a fool. That was the best he could do?

“I guess,” the boy – Prompto – muttered, the tone of self-deprecation familiar. But before Ignis could repeat himself more firmly, the policewoman had returned, gently tucking a blanket around his shoulders before ushering the boy off to acquire a ride home. Ignis pulled the blanket tighter around him. It was scratchy and irritating, but he grateful for the small bit of warmth it provided.

He couldn’t even see him. He couldn’t even watch him go. What was he meant to understand here?

A wet nose nudged his exposed hand, and he released the blanket to reach and bury his hands in sleek fur. Letting the blanket slip from his shoulders, he ran his hands down the dog’s body in long, firm strokes. Was it time to go?

And again, that pull in the pit of his stomach, leaving him grateful, at least, that he hadn’t eaten recently. Throwing up after all this would just . . . really be the cherry on top, right now.

And just like that, he was back at the Leville, or so he surmised. The feel of the bed beneath him was familiar, the sound of the rain above him, pattering away on the roof, and the scarce few people left calling to each other in the distance. A light knock at his door, and then hesitant steps as the blond – now of age, as he remembered – stepped inside, his uneven gait speaking to hesitance or uncertainty or just general anxiety, he could hardly say.

“Iggy!” The distress was palatable in the blond’s voice and the hurried steps to his bedside. Hands fluttered over him before coming to take his own, rubbing warmth back into the chilled digits. His fingers, stiff as they were, automatically curled around the warmer hands. “You’re shivering!”

He supposed so. He was just about soaked through at this point, wasn’t he? And the police station hadn’t exactly been a beacon of warmth. Not that this room was, either, but it had been warm enough, when he was dry.

“Let’s get you out of those wet clothes.” The blond’s voice was unsteady, but determined. He didn’t even ask questions. Just. Straight to helping. He hadn’t changed so much, had he? He was still, to some degree, that same boy. A bit older. More experienced. Perhaps a bit sadder. But still so eager to be of help. To be loved.

While Prompto was taking care of him, who was taking care of Prompto?

“Prompto.” He spoke softly. Reverently. Prompto hadn’t been pitying him. Had been supporting him as best he could, though he must have been suffering, too. He was doing his best. It wasn’t his fault that everything about the situation frustrated Ignis beyond irritability.

He hands worked their way up freckled arms, letting the memory of a most beloved face guide him as he moved to cup the blond’s cheeks, thumbs moving slowly, carefully, to stroke familiar cheekbones.

No matter how hopeless things seemed, Prompto wouldn’t just give up on him. Wasn’t doing so, even now, when he was all but useless. He shouldn’t give up on himself, either.

He leaned forward, lightly pressing his lips to what turned out to be the corner of his beloved’s mouth. “Thank you.”

He would find another way.


End file.
